Blow, weary wind, The golden rod scarce chiding; Sir Launcelot is riding By shady wood-paths pleasant To fields of yellow corn. He starts a whirring pheasant, And clearly winds his horn. The Queen's Tower gleams mid distant hills; A thought like joyous sunshine thrills, "My love grows kind."
Blow, weary wind, O'er lakes, o'er dead swamps crying, Amid the gray stumps sighing While slow, and cold, and sullen, The waves splash on the shore. O'er wastes of bush and mullen, Dull crows flap, evermore. The Autumn day is chill and drear As you knight, thinking Guenevere Proves almost unkind.
